Untitled by Oyinda

There’s a stillness in her eyes that I have never seen before, and slowly her fingertips erupt in passion. Treading softly, tumbling waves rolling down my arms, her fingers glide, then gently grip, glide then butterfly kisses; stop. We’ve been sat here in silence for two minutes. Dead-on two minutes. The big hands beat 120 times as it circles around the frame of clock and slices through our unspoken words. We’ve been here a while, and her heartbeat hasn’t slowed. The faint thumping in her chest moves to a different rhythm than my own. In and out. In and out. Don’t forget to breathe. Her breath is hoarse and shallow. The pressure on my arms haven’t faded, white-hot glowing scars where her fingers left imprints. I can still feel them.

15 minutes later and my head hits the wall. I miscalculated the distance between the short ends of the bed. I just wanted to collapse and go slack, but now there’s loud laughter and a bobbing head. She’s squeezing her knee and pressing her hand to her mouth to stop the laughter. Is the silence broken? The awkwardness easing? She hasn’t looked at me yet.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry I really shouldn’t be laughing. The first words amidst laughter. It feels like there’s a river at the back of my head. Stormy weather in the sky so the waves are crashing forward and violently, recklessly and uncaring. It feels like tears. She still hasn’t looked at me.

My hands form a closed bar cage around my face and I’m telling her to go. Red-hot fingerprint imprint embedded on my arm. I’m yearning for the white-hot sting to return and muster up the quickly fading passion in the air. Now she turns and sees the cage.

I’m sorry I don’t know what came over me.
Hurried. Rushed. Sad. Her coat is pulled off my rack, and the school bag dragged off my bed.

Oyinda is a 16 year old Nigerian girl living in London, England. She is a writer and part of Sula Collective’s staff. You can find her on tumblr and instagram. Illustration by Bich.